


Best Men

by 222Ravens



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Johnlock, F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Stubborn Men Who Won't Admit Their Feelings, engagements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/222Ravens/pseuds/222Ravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d like you to come, Sherlock. I mean it. You’re… You’re my best man. My best friend.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will probably be three chapters, maybe four.
> 
>  
> 
> This probably takes place within the first few weeks after Sherlock's return.
> 
> Assumes that John got engaged a few months before Sherlock returned, and that otherwise the events of The Adventure of the Empty House unfolded more or less in accordance with canon. (Though there was probably less fainting, and more yelling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d like you to come, Sherlock. I mean it. You’re… You’re my best man. My best friend.”

“I’d like you to come, Sherlock. I mean it. You’re… You’re my best man. My _best friend_.”

 

Sherlock keeps playing, his mocking Wedding March turning into something else, his violin producing notes that carry a certain hint of bitterness with them. John doesn’t know the tune, but it’s clearly not a happy one. 

 

“I’m not going to beg. Just… Just know that when we first started planning this wedding, I… I told Mary I didn’t want a best man, because it would be dishonest. That the best man I ever knew couldn’t make it, because he was dead, and I didn’t want a substitute. And she said she understood perfectly. So no matter what else you think of her...”

 

Sherlock stops playing, the strings squeaking as the bow halts abruptly, and puts the violin down. He turns towards John, his face carefully schooled. Too carefully, John is worried to see. Normally, _before,_ that wasn’t a good thing, not even a little. But he isn’t sure anymore.  “No.”

 

His jaw clenches. “Alright. Fine. Have it your way, then. You always do, don’t you?”

 

“Don’t make this about the last three years John, because if I’d had any other…”

 

John snaps, “What the hell am I supposed to make this about, Sherlock?”and walks to the door. His hand is on the knob before Sherlock interrupts him, forcing him to look back.

 

“I cannot be your best man, John. And I’m… I am sorry. For a great many things. Whether you chose to believe that or not is your choice.” He smiles, and it’s all wrong, the smile, it’s fake and pained and John doesn’t know _why_. 

 

“Still, I think it’s best if we didn’t contact each other again. Have a nice life.” He makes as if to pick up the violin again.

 

“Damn it, Sherlock, you don’t get to just…” John splutters and takes a step toward him, before he is stopped by a single word of warning in the infuriatingly _cold_ tone of voice.

 

“ _John_.”

 

There is a very long twenty seconds that pass, before John straightens up, says “Understood,” and just.. leaves.

 

Sherlock watches him go out the window, then sends a single text.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I take it your conversation with Dr. Watson did not go well?”

Mycroft arrives within the hour. Sherlock is smoking.

 

“I take it your conversation with Dr. Watson did not go well?” He asks smoothly, joining Sherlock at the kitchen table. Mycroft picks up a cigarette, but doesn’t light it.

 

“The wedding is in two months.” Sherlock states, taking another puff. There is an overnight bag on the chair beside him. Mycroft recognizes it. It isn’t John’s, definitely his brother’s.

 

“Ah. Yes. My sympathies. Tea?” 

 

“No.”

 

Mycroft makes it anyway, because that is what he does, and pours a cup for Sherlock, then one for himself.

 

Sherlock accepts the mug, putting it down beside him.“There are some biscuits in the tin, I think, if you want to help yourself to those as well.” 

 

“No, thank you. I’m fine with just the tea.”

 

He drinks. It’s stale, and not precisely fine quality to begin with. 

 

Sherlock keeps sitting, and smoking, and doesn’t drink the tea.

 

Mycroft sits with him anyway. It’s their way. He knows his brother well enough to know when to press and when to stay silent.

 

After perhaps fifteen minutes, Sherlock speaks again. “I need to get away from London for a bit. Avoid… The press, you know how it is. I thought I’d stay in the Sussex cottage for a month or two. Possibly three. Mmm… Three, I should think. There are still bees there, are there not? I’ve some experiments I’d like to conduct if there are.”

 

“Do you really think that’s best?” Mycroft asks, with uncharacteristic softness in his tone.

 

This gets a drawling, “It’s that or a truly spectacular relapse, and I know what would be less embarrassing for you. What do you think, should I go for the cocaine or heroin this time?”

 

“Have you considered informing him as to your feelings?”

 

This cigarette is stubbed out rather violently, though the rest of his appearance remains calm. Sherlock reaches for another cigarette, only for Mycroft to pick up the package and put it into his suit pocket.

 

“No. I said I couldn’t attend the wedding, and I did not wish him to contact me again. That’s all he need hear.”

 

Mycroft sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “That _appears_ reasonable enough.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“It’s simply a pity…” Mycroft begins, and trails off just as quickly, shaking his head.

 

“Don’t tell me you want me to have handled it differently.”

 

“I wouldn’t have done a great many things you have done, Sherlock. We are less alike than I was convinced of three years ago. I would have never done the things you did for the sake on merely one man.”

 

“It was the only way to dismantle the entirety of Moriarity’s network. Anything less would have been leaving things unfinished, and the challenge of it…” Sherlock purses his lips, flicking the lighter absently.

 

“You forget that I know you too well, Sherlock. Others might believe that, I think given enough effort you might even be able to convince yourself of that… but _me_? You did it for Dr. Watson.” It is far from being a question, or even a comment designed to draw a reaction, mere dry declaration of the facts of the matter.

 

Sherlock pauses. “Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, too, they were factors in my decision. But I won’t deny John played a large role in it.”

 

“I was wrong, you know.”

 

“Really?” Sherlock sounds bored when he says it.

 

“Love and sentiment… They are not always a weakness. Usually, yes. A weakness and a dangerous inconvenience. Sometimes, however, they aren’t. Sometimes it is rather the opposite entirely.”

 

“Wrong. They distract. Distractions are never of benefit. John is better off without me. I am better off.”

 

Mycroft stands, leaving the tea things on the table. 

 

“I’ll have the cottage prepared. Just… Think on it.”

 

“Wait.” Sherlock reaches into his pocket, and pulls out four small bags of powder. He hesitates, then hands them to Mycroft, who takes them, and places them with the cigarettes in the pocket. “Thank you. Truly. 

 

You should tell him.”

 

“I really shouldn’t.”

 

“Have it your way.”

 

Sherlock laughs.

 

“Did I say something amusing?”

 

“No. Merely contemplating the fact that John said the same thing to me, though, just today . It’s only funny because it isn’t at all true. The few times in my life I attempt to be unselfish is always when I am most staunchly accused of the opposite. Good day, Mycroft. Go back to running the world, it’s less complicated and a great deal easier.”

 

“Good day, brother.”

 

“No, I daresay it won’t be. But I’ll be fine. I always am.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments will be greeted with endless delight and fluffy glow-in-the-dark bunny rabbits.

John lets himself into their flat, and kicks off his shoes angrily, tossing his coat onto the rack and storming into the kitchen, trying to breathe.

 

Mary is there, dressed in a fluffy white bathrobe, her red hair still damp from the shower, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. She looks at him, and the little lines in her face crinkle into a sad, knowing smile at a single glance.

 

“How is he?” She asks.

 

John takes off his jumper, setting it down on the counter of their flat. “Any tea left?” He asks, throat tight. “Had to fight off another bloody reporter at the door. Kept on about…”

 

She raises her eyebrow, but says, “There’s still about a cuppa left in the pot, I figured you’d want some. It should be still warm, I put a cosy on it.” 

 

“God, you are an amazing woman.” He busies himself getting a mug, pouring the tea, and is reaching into the refrigerator to get the milk out when she stops him.

 

“John…” She folds his hand into hers, slim warm fingers enclosing his, still cold from being outdoors. “Look at your hands.”

 

So he does, and they are trembling, actually trembling, and that isn’t fair. That after all this time, that _stupid man_ can have that kind of affect on his life, because he was moving on, and what gave him the right?

 

He sighs out, and waits, and slowly ( _breathing in and out, his hands in hers_ ), they still. 

 

“I _really_ don’t want to talk about it. Or _him_. In fact, if we could just ignore him entirely, that would be wonderful. God knows he made it clear enough that’s what he wants, so I’ll just… Just stop talking about it, right now, and drink my tea, right here in my kitchen, with my fiancee, and I’ll, I don’t know, call Bill Murray tomorrow, see if he wants to do it.” 

 

He pulls his hand away, and gets the milk, and gets his bloody tea.

 

“So, he said no, then? To being best man?” Mary asks cautiously, putting her own mug into the dishwasher. 

 

“To being best man, to being… He said he can’t be my best man, that…”

 

“‘ _Can’t’_? Not won’t? He said that exact phrase?” Mary interrupts, her lips pursing curiously.

 

John nods. “That, and he doesn’t want to have any contact with me again.  God, he as good as said… Nope. Nope. I’ve a new life. That’s what I want. I’ve learned to live without him, I did it just fine for three years, I can do it again, I _don’t care.”_

 

He frowns, and says louder than he likely intended, “He’s lost his chance.” 

 

And isn’t sure exactly what chance he’s referring to at all

 

Mary hugs him, and he holds back, standing in their little kitchen breathing in the jasmine smell of her conditioner, the cleaning solution smell lingering on the countertops, and he tries to feel at home, because _this_ is his home, not that stupid flat that he’s not going back to, not ever, damn him. 

 

“I don’t blame him.” Mary mutters into his shoulder, and he draws away, startled.

 

“I’ve only met him twice, but I know him. I can’t know as much as I do about you and not know him at least a little bit. And my brother has Asperger’s, you know that much. I don’t know if that’s what he has too, but he acts in a similar sort of way to Owen, so I suppose it’s possible.”

 

“I stopped trying to put Sherlock in any one box a long time ago, I think.” It’s intended as a joke, but falls a bit flat.

 

Mary looks at him sternly.

 

“He gave up three years of his life to keep you safe, John, threw away everything, his career, his friends, family, reputation. His mother died while he was away and he didn’t even attend the funeral, couldn’t stand the chance. Did you know that?”

 

John stares at her, flabbergasted. “God, no, he… I didn’t know that. He never said.” 

 

“Mycroft let that one slip during one of our little chats. You know how _hard_ is it for me to know things like that and be told I shouldn’t tell you? But that’s not important.  While he was, away… He was monitoring you, making sure you’re alright, because despite what anybody think, maybe even him, he still _cares_.”

 

“It’s…” John starts, and is interrupted by a finger at his lips.

 

“And it _happens_. You did everything you could to make the world see what you saw in him, you cleared his name, published books, found evidence of Moriarity… But then you stopped, you are _happy_ , you’ve moved on from him, you don’t need him anymore, he thinks. You’ve found someone else you need more, he thinks, and he’d just be in the way of that.”

 

She twists the string on her dressing gown in her fingers, brows furrowed, her voice softly thoughtful.

 

“So he decides that he’ll just keep on going, making sure that you and I are safe, because that matter more than anything that might happen to him, except he makes a mistake, and you aren’t safe anymore, so he has to break his promises to himself, interrupt your life again to stop that Moran bastard, and god, do you have any idea how _guilty_ he must have been doing that?”

 

“Not nearly as guilty as I felt for three years thinking…” John mutters, taking a sip of his tea. It’s the funny vanilla kind he doesn’t particularly care for.

 

“Stop that, John. You know exactly how unfair that is.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Yes, it is. And it’s the same as it was, but it isn’t, because everything that was is still there, but there’s just so much in the way, so he thinks removing himself completely is the best option, breaking ties, whatever.” She laughs, low and sadly. 

 

“I know it isn’t. You know it isn’t, just about anyone with any sense left in them would know that isn’t the solution, but I get the feeling that he isn’t as clever as he thinks he is.”

 

“Suppose that’s one interpretation.” John says coldly, turning away. “I still think… It doesn’t matter.”

 

Mary sighs. 

 

“I know it does, though. . Let’s get some sleep, you’ve an earlier shift in the morning, and I’ve got a plethora of grouchy grad students to wrangle tomorrow. Just... Think about what you need, John. God, when I met you… You were hurting, and I think you still are a bit. I was too, for different reasons, and I think we’ve patched each other up fairly well, and we both needed that. You should try and fix things with Sherlock. I won’t say anything more on the subject, but right now I think that’s what you need. He cares about what you think of him. There must be a reason he did it.”

 

“He doesn’t care what anybody thinks of him.” John says, in a flat voice without much conviction.

 

“John. I know you don’t want to talk about it, not when he was dead, because I asked and you said it didn’t matter anyway, however you might have felt on the subject. But he isn’t dead, and if there’s a chance that I was right when I asked you that, I need you to tell me.”

 

His face softens for a brief moment, then freezes again. “Mary, I love you, alright? Please, let’s just not do this, don’t, I’m not...”

 

“I’m not denying that, John. And I love you too. But you know, I’m thirty-six, that’s not that old, not these days. I don’t want to say this, I really don’t, I want to be selfish and not mention it because I would be so happy, even if I’m your second choice and you don’t even realize it. But how can I measure up to someone like him? I just.. I want to know that we’re going into this the right way, because you can’t tell me that Sherlock being alive doesn’t change things, because what he did for you, everything he’s done since?”

 

She looks him straight in the eye. “Those are the actions of someone who care about you, in his own way. And I saw the way he looks at you, John, going all the way back to the photos in those old newspaper clippings still knocking about the flat. Think about the possibility that... If I didn't know better, I'd say he's love with you, and that’s why he said no to being your best man, because that’s not what he wants to be. I might still be right about that.”

 

John splutters. “No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t think like that, that isn’t him, he doesn’t… I… He thinks love is, I don't know... A disadvantage. For children. Whatever. He'd never...”

 

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.” Mary points out, bluntly.

 

John trails off, and doesn’t say anything for several long minutes, but his jaw works, his eyes flicker, and Mary can tell that he’s thinking, hard. “Do you mind if I go out for a bit? I need some air.” He says, finally, guilt flashing across his face.

 

She kisses him gently on the cheek, and John suddenly doesn’t want to go out, because he has this horrible feeling that kiss felt far too much like the end of something.

 

“Sherlock coming back did change things. We both know it. If I was what you needed then, but I’m not anymore…” She brushes a hand across his cheek, turning away and heading toward the bedroom. “I won’t lie and say it would make me happy, but believe me when I say I would at least understand. I love you, but I’d rather that…” Mary shakes her head. “Have a good walk, John. Don’t make any decisions right now. There’s time yet for that.”

 

But he picks his coat up again, with a sinking feeling that Sherlock Holmes has just successfully bollocksed up another chapter in his life.

 

When he comes back, Mary is asleep, and he crawls into bed after her, then stares at the ceiling for a long time before he ever falls asleep.


End file.
